I’m friends with the monster that’s under my bed….

I got a new tattoo last week. It’s a small poem that I wanted to have with me permanently. Six lines of simple typewriter script that embody an important part of my story. A tattoo seemed the perfect way to mark the progress I have made with my mental health. It is important to me acknowledge that yes I have struggled and I have used my flesh to illustrate those troubles, but they don’t define me. I have hope.

  

If I were writing this for a one of the mainstream mental health organisations I suspect this is where this piece would be cut. It would be a neat little story of redemption; unfortunately mental illness isn’t that tidy. The above is all true. I have made strides into a new life. I did want to commemorate my evolution, but I was also making a declaration of defiance. The fight isn’t over, you see. I am fairly certain it never will be. The urge to hurt myself has never completely left me. 

I have been doing well. I am working on some business ideas. Trying new things, stretching myself. I haven’t cut for quite some time. I had begun to feel that I was wrestling back some control. 

It’s never that simple though, is it?

A few weeks ago my nightmares returned. I cannot discern any trigger. Nor can I find any way to calm my subconscious. The disturbance has crept into my waking hours. Flashbacks have begun to plague me & with them come the overwhelming desire to spill my blood. The compulsion to cut is so strong that I see images in my mind, tiny little slasher movies starring me. Even worse though is the fear these symptoms bring. The sheer panic that my life is about to be shattered again. I am overwhelmed with the need to be swallowed up by my crazy. 

The glimmer of hope is that I have not cut. However, I can make no guarantees that I will not reach for my blade at some point in the future. 

And

This is the reality of mental illness. 

I fight to reclaim my life every day. I never have the luxury of being cured.  I just keep breathing and pushing forward. This is my ‘recovery’. This is story I want to tell.

i’ll stand in front of you, take the force of the blow

i am currently enduring EMDR.
it’s a therapy designed to reprocess thought & feelings relating to a traumatic experiences.
it basically involves repeatedly revisiting the event. focusing on specific aspects & the feelings they evoke with the desired income of making them less painful.
i was aware hard. i am forcing myself to examine a period of my life that i have been avoiding for 14 years. these memories have never been safe ground for me.
stirring up things that i have purposely supressed for my entire adult life is terrifying.
the sessions themselves are emtional and exhausting. inbetween sessions has become a type of hell.
i’ve been having nightmares. well, some of them are nightmares. others are just dreams about that period. neither are welcome. i’m scared to sleep,which only makes everything else worse.
worse than the nightmares are the flashbacks, awful memories that i get trapped in. images of the worst moments of my life. i cant explain how frightening it is to be back there.
i don’t know how to cope with either of these developments.
the urge is cut is so intense. i see graphic images in my head. i feel the need to hurt.
to be disfigured
and
damaged.
perhaps a reflection of how i view myself.
i am making a little progress. i am beginning to develop some compassion for my younger self. i am able to acknowledge that at 19 years old, i was unprepared for the series of events that occured. i feel a little less angry with the young me.
i’m yet to feel less to blame, just that maybe there were mitgating circumstances.
it’s a slow, excruciating process, but i determined to see it through.
i’m hoping that i will finally be able to deal with the trauma and move on.